But the thing is, when it comes to beer, I’m boring. I have Plebian tastes. I’m like a person in a restaurant-sampling club that constantly wants to go to McDonald’s.

Restaurant Club member #1: Next week we should sample some Malaysian cuisine.

Restaurant club member #2: That sounds fun, but I’d really like to try that new Somali restaurant everyone’s talking about.

Me: You know the fries at McDonald’s are always fucking delicious. We should totally go there.

When it comes to beer I’m a creature of habit. I want that redundant experience. I want the same taste, I want the same flavor. I’m not looking for the next great summer wheat ale brewed in a virgin’s slipper high atop Mount Beeralvania.

That said, much like wine (which I never drink), it doesn’t stop me from learning a bit about different beers or from wanting to understand the differences, the nuances, the complexities and varieties out there. I’m interested.

I know I’ll never be anything close to an expert, and who cares.

Which leads me to Germany and the multitude of different beers this part of Europe offers. They got everything from boring pilsners, to smoked beers to the strongest strongest beer in Germany. I’ll give them all a try.

We moved here in 2007. Almost immediately upon arrival I began to hear about something magical brewing in Bavaria. A beer that was only available in certain parts of the region. It was dark in color, yet somehow light in taste. It left you refreshed while somehow seeming to be thick. It cured cancer, blindness and, if applied directly to the genitals, could issue in an era of world peace.

It was good stuff, or so I’m told. I’m a lazy fucker when it comes to my taste in beer remember?

Winkler Bräu it’s made from the tears of beautiful virgins or something …

It’s called Winkler Bräu and among a certain set of Americans here in Germany, its a legend.

Soon, among almost any group of Americans I worked with, a business or pleasure trip to Bavaria automatically meant you were obligated to bring back Winkler Bräu. It was as if you were mandated from a higher-power. Should you make the 3.5-hour trip one way, it was your job to return everyone’s empty racks of Winkler Bräu and bring back full ones. Failure to do such was an affront to all that was good and just in the world.

I’ve literally stopped on the way home, tired after a long business trip, and Googled the nearest location that carried it. Sometimes I would end up driving miles out of my way to secure the many racks of beer I was expected – nay, mandated by God – to return with.

Bringing back Winkler Bräu is just that important. Forgetting a rack of 20 beers for a buddy can end friendships, wars have or should have been fought over it. You just don’t fuck around when it comes to bringing home the golden nectar.

Because my wife loves it too I picked up a case for her when I was there last week and when I heard a friend was going this week, I dutifully passed on the EUR 20 necessary to purchase another case. Because apparently you just can’t have enough Winkler Bräu in stock.

And again I don’t even drink it, I just understand that people love it.

Turn to this week. One of my co-workers has something called the “internet.” I don’t really know what that is or what it does, but he seems to have a fine command of it.

During the exchange of euros with those fortunate enough to travel to the promised land in search of Winkler Bräu, he belts out the following:

“Hey, you know that they sell that shit right down the street right? Look right here on Google. You just punch in your address and it shows you where they sell it. They sell it right next to my house, why do you all drive four hours to get it?”

I used to think the following fact about me was weird: I gamble and when I win, — win big mind you — I give the winnings to my wife.

I used to think that most dudes (even ladies) when winning large pots kept their mouths shut when it came to their spouses. Hell, maybe some do, but the more I hear gamblers talk, the more I realize that we tend to share our winnings with our loved ones.

Think about every lottery winner you’ve ever heard talk about what they plan to do with the money.

No one ever says, “Fuck everyone else, I’m keeping all this shit!”

No one does that. It’s all “I’m going to buy my mom and dad the house they’ve always wanted, my wife’s getting her dream vacation and I’m totally having sex with three strippers.”

At least that’s what I’d say.

I bring this up because of two things. First I had a good night conning a bit of luck out of lady luck and second because my wife is insane.

Ding, ding, ding … yet I’m still moping floors …

I was $40 into my bet when I won $630. That’s what I call a “walk away moment.” I don’t care if my drink is still fresh. I don’t care if I just arrived at my game of chance,. I don’t care if the lady next to me is hot, naked and offering me a hand job if I’ll just play a bit more. A return like that is one I have to cash out immediately.

Makes sense right?

I gamble. I enjoy it. Like all gamblers I also have days that I don’t win. Those suck. My rule is pretty simple. Never lose more than $200 and any winnings of $200 or less don’t get reported to the boss.

Actually it’s simpler than that. I play until I’ve had one beer and then quit. Up or down, my rule is one beer and out.

So, there I am Monday $40 into the bet and a half a beer left and shit got real. I was suddenly $630 ahead. Clearly, it was time to quit.

Quit I did.

As I still had half a beer to finish, a fat wallet and time to kill I texted my wife, with a photo of the winnings. Prior to this, we had a deal that I would mop the kitchen floor when I got home that night and I asked, along with the photo of my winnings, if I still had to mop the floor.

She asked how much I had won.

I told her.

She said, “It’s not a grand so yes you do.”

Quickly I queried three female friends of ours about this dilemma. One replied, “You would not have to mop the floor tonight.” One said she, “I would mop the kitchen floor naked for that kind of cash,” and the third wisely ignored me for a while and mocked me several hours later.

In my head I was stuck. Dagmar, as I’ve mentioned before, likes to squirrel away in shoe boxes (despite a robust and healthy banking infrastructure) cash for vacations, rainy days and emergencies. This bounty would be a hefty addition to her 1930-era investment plan.

Also, I didn’t want to mop the fucking floor.

I called her on the drive home.

Me: Hey, that was a nice win, huh?

Her: It was, awesome.

Me: I can give you 630 reasons why I shouldn’t have to mop the floor tonight.

Her: Whatever, look I’m busy.

Interestingly I could have hired someone to mop my floor naked. Next time.

We hung up and I took that to mean that at least for the next 24 hours I was mop-duty free. I mean, $630 has to count for something.

Assuming you’re still with me on this tirade, however, you may have already guessed the outcome.

No, I didn’t mop the floor, but the second phrase out of my wife’s mouth after, where’s the money, was “Why didn’t you mop the floor?”

So you’ve graduated from Navy basic training. Good job. I mean that. You know better than all of us it was hard. In the eyes of a lot of people, myself included, you’re officially a man. A young man sure, but a man nonetheless. You should be proud.

My own father did a pretty fine job raising me too. Look at me, I have a blog and everything! Nothing says success like a blog* my friend.

Here are few lessons he shared with me. It’s good stuff, take notes.

10. Shave before you shower.

I’m assuming you’re using a razor and shaving cream these days. If so, shave

slap some chap on that

before you shower. That way, if you nick yourself, it has time to stop bleeding during the shower. This works 99 percent of the time. During that 1 percent of the time it doesn’t work, keep some Chapstick in your shaving kit and run it over the cut. Apply pressure if needed. If you don’t have Chapstick in your shaving kit deodorant also works as a backup.

9. Always, always, always look good.

I can’t stress this one enough. The military, I think it’s obvious, is about to go through some pretty radical transformation as we move from wartime footing back to a peacetime footing – people are getting fired in the near future. So, obviously, do your job well. But there’s more to it than that. A lot of your peers are going to push the boundaries when it comes to military regulations about appearance. Don’t do this. Uphold the standard, be better than the standard and never, in the military at least, test it when it comes to appearance.

8. It’s okay to fail.

No matter what job you get in the military, I can tell you with absolute certainty they will tolerate your retarded 19-year-old failures. And there will be a few. Get used to it, you’re going to fuck up. Don’t get me wrong, if you fuck up too much there is hell to pay. Trying and failing is natural, expected even. The trick is though, to rack up wins. Ninety-nine percent of the time wins are easy. Be first to show up for the shift and be last to leave. Do the thing that no one wants to do. If there is nothing to do for the organization, find something productive to do for the organization. Be an asset. Do those things and falling on your ass once in a while is viewed more as a learning experience on your part by your bosses rather than another fuck up by a fucked up person. I can’t stress this enough — if you’re always trying to do a good job, occasionally falling short of that goal isn’t viewed as a bad thing.

7. Have sex with tons of chicks

Yeah, John, we both made the wrong choice. Damn Air Force. Get used to saying that.

Got your attention there didn’t I? I mean it. Be safe about it, put a condom on your penis and respect the woman you’re with, but have fucking fun. It’s what you’re going to do anyway so any advice I’m offering here is really just after the fact. The point is, explore and have fun. When you meet her — you’ll know. Until that time, call me with your awesome stories of your hot sexcapades (call often please!)

6. Be first. Second place is literally the first loser.

This plays off rule three. None of your successes in basic training matters — not a one. Sorry to be a bummer. You’re about to go to your first duty station and I’m here to tell you that being the best now is what matters. You won’t always be the best and that’s OK (see rule three) but be the best as often as you can. If there is a competition, fight for first place. You might have heard the saying about the military, “Don’t be first and don’t be last, be in the middle.” It’s a bullshit bit of advice from here on out. Be first, always.

5. Always, always be a gentleman.

… lots of ribbons

Hold the door for the person behind you, regardless of sex, age or anything. Hold the door. But this rule goes beyond that. Offer to help with the hard stuff, always. If a person is carrying a shit ton of stuff, you’ll see this in the military more than once, offer to help carry the load. Once in 1996 I was literally carrying two duffle bags and a rucksack from one barracks to another when an officer stopped his car and insisted I toss my bags in the trunk of his car so he could drive me the last few block to my new barracks. He was right to do it, we always, always help each other. That always extends to the world at large. You wear a uniform now, it’s your duty to help. If you see someone struggling, help. It’s that easy.

4. Invest.

Do the TSP investment. Do it to the maximum amount they will let you. It’s a generous investment plan that will 2 or 20 years later have a bit of cash in your account. Take advantage of every investment opportunity they offer, grab those with both hands. If the investment plan has a .mil on the end of it invest in it. Also put a portion of your check in a savings account, every month.

3. Go to fucking school.

Take advantage of the educational opportunities the Navy presents you. Don’t be like me. I only milked them out of an associate’s degree in general studies which is like if someone said, “You can have whatever you want in this ice cream store,” and I ordered a fucking vanilla scoop in a cup, and no I didn’t even get sprinkles. Don’t be like me, I’m an idiot. Milk it for every penny it will give. Go to school.

2. Be yourself

Be you, my friend, be you. You’ll have bosses you don’t like, assignments that suck and jobs you hate. That’s part of being in the military, hell its part of life. Through all of it though, be you. There will be clique’s that see it different, fuck them. They’re retarded. Be you. Always.

1. Call your mom.

Always call mom. She’s gives better advice than this piece of shit blog ever can. Mom loves you, she will always give you rock-solid advice. A fact I think you’ll soon discover. You’ll be out of the training environment soon and on your own. Make it point to call home once a week on a regular basis. Mom will be there if you need to talk to her more than that. Once a week, call home.

Rebellion, open and honest rebellion, is my only option. The oppressed must rebel.

I have no guns, mind you. No weapons, save a bayonet I bought for like $5 in Iraq years ago. But desperate times, my friends, call for desperate measures.

I speak, of course, of my wife’s retarded – I mean insane, I mean full-blown weird – decision to remove the trash can from the house.

I honestly just blogged, twice about a fucking trash can. Everyone deserves some boobs.

I talked about it here. But if you don’t want to read that, let me sum it up quickly.

My wife decided, for reasons that escape any known or sane definition of logic, to do away with the trash can. The MAIN trash can, mind you (the one in the kitchen), has been removed from the house entirely. In the trash can’s place we are currently using – and I couldn’t make this up if I tried – convenience store plastic bags hanging from the door knob.

Don’t try and work through the “why” of this command decision. There isn’t any way to rationalize it. It is devoid of reason and without logic. There is no, it-helps-with-recycling aspect to it. In fact, I’m pretty sure it does the exact opposite since all trash goes into the same plastic bag.

Ease can’t be the reason for the change. The small bags fill up every time someone farts. The only purpose, I can surmise, is to annoy the living hell out of me. Something an actual trashcan never did.

A beer ad from Brazil! I was trying to find a trash can full of beer cans and instead found this. You are very welcome. ~Fran

Trust me on this one – TOTAL pain in the ass.

Besides filling up at a rate of every second, my wife insists the handles of each plastic bag be tied before being removed from the house. Because obviously, an untied plastic convenience store bag holding coffee grounds, empty beer cans and egg shells is tacky as hell, or an affront to god.

Or something.

Anyway, rebellion, or something akin to rebellion, is brewing. Soon I’ll be meeting with like-minded individuals (the cat) to discuss in hushed tones the revolution.

We’re on the cusp of blood being spilled. Well, not blood exactly, but at the very least beer and that’s c0mpletely fucked up.

The following exchange just took place.

“Damn, Todd! If you would just take the trash out when it’s full, I wouldn’t get mad,” she said.

“You know what would make this a lot simpler, using a trash can,” I explained. “It’s an ancient invention that has proven its worth throughout the ages. Having little bags the size of a fucking coin purse to deposit our waste into is both stupid and stupid. It’s stupid twice. It makes literally no sense. Logic cannot be applied to the decision, that YOU made. It’s impossible to logically justify this decision from any firm standing.”

Her logic is that there would be too many beer cans in the trash can if we used the actual trash can. There are too many, thus the trash can is no longer going to be used. I also might add that we have a newly purchased, fully functional trash can, that she banished to the basement some weeks ago.

Now… I’ll be fair, I’ll be honest, I’ll bare my soul here. This blog is called Had A Few BEERS for Christ’s sake, so yes, the receptacles that deliver beer’s sweet, succulent love into my belly are eventually in need of disposal. My love, nay, devotion to beer produces (gasp) empty beer cans.

In our last house it was verboten to even place a beer can in the kitchen trash (I used the one in the garage to dispose of my empties). So her argument holds no water, or trash, as the case may be.

just put the fucking trash can back in place. When confronted I will tell her it’s there because it’s stupid to not have it there. I’ll also use phrases like, “Because I said so.” “Trashcans are not evil.” “Who has the penis in this house?” And, “Please honey, can’t we have a working trashcan, please?”

I’d type a lot more of this, but I obviously have a tiny bag of trash to take out.

I have restored the trash cans to their rightful place in the Oliver Republic. Much like Caesar, I fully expect to be stabbed. Oh well, the die is cast.

Finally, to anyone reading this and thinking, but what about Germany’s recycling laws, I’d like to reply, yes.

A fast note to Had A Few Beers readers: Fran, the awesome person who edits this, recently had surgery for chick stuff or a rotten gallbladder, or circumcision, I wasn’t really listening. Seriously though, I hope everyone reading this takes a moment to wish her a speedy recovery. (Fran you’re awesome and I hope you feel better, sans gallbladder).

Today this craptastic collection of bad jokes, thinly-veiled, breast-fetish material and homage to alcoholism that I call “Had a Few Beers” is 1 year old.

Actually, I’m not really sure what day I started this and am really too lazy to look it up. It was January though, I remember that much. I was drinking beers in my garage when I thought, “You know what I should do with all these awesome thoughts I have, I should write them down so that the world can see how great they are.”

I should mention I was looking at a friend’s BMW parked in my garage for

Yes, early on at HadaFewBeers.com we staged, and by we I mean I, epic dinosaurs verses army men battles on a friends new BMW hood. Why mandatory drug testing was not insisted upon at my work, I’ll never know.

the winter and thinking about the merits of tea-bagging various parts of it at the time. So there’s that, if it adds context.

But here we are 89 posts later, and I know that exact number because the dorks at WordPress insist on telling me “OH MY GOD! YOU JUST LOADED ANOTHER UPDATE” every time I, ya know, load a fucking update. I mean the last thing I want when I push “publish” is a giant pop up screen tell me about it. I have typos to fix and links to shorten. The nerds who run this place need to actually DO a blog here.

Anyway, 89 painfully obvious updates and a year later, here we are. Hitting 50,000 views in the very near future (all of them looking for information about sauna boners it would seem if the search terms are to be trusted) and I’m ready to do some more — damage.

The first post to reach 100 views in a day was this one and I didn’t even write it (bitch!).

She was also my first ‘guest blogger’ … the first of four (andheretheyare).

The most popular search term with 1,425 hits is (do not follow this link, it’s a porn site and I honestly don’t know how or why it’s associated with HAFBs, if anyone can explain it I will pay money) Beeg.com.

The second is most popular search term is, drum roll, “nude sauna.”

The nude sauna seriously has by far been the most popular over time. A lot of people in ‘Merica are looking for nude sauna blogs, or they just want porn about saunas, I don’t know.

Look people it’s really, really hot in those things. I know people in Europe are

See no one is slipping anyone a Mr. Happy …

naked and there are mixed genders in there but it’s really, really hot in there. I promise no one is scrogging in a real sauna. Just blinking is tiresome in there, for the love of god.

We’ve had some great cleavage shots because a chick I know rocks at sending spur of the moment cleavage shots. (*mental note, do a cleavage montage update later).

Our favorite blogger has to be Oh God, My Wife Is German and he gave us our first “shout out” when this first started. He also gave us another shout out after winning an expatriate blogger award. He also rocks, so go read his stuff. He breaks electric razors for his blog. All I’ve ever destroyed here is my reputation — you know stupid stuff.

We have a facebook like page with over 1,000 likes (and growing) that you can reach (and like) here or over on the left if you don’t like my link.

Anyway, it’s all right here in this handy-dandy end-of-year report by the good folks at WordPress.com. Good job, nerds. You can see Marni Sandberg out performed Mmmmmags as the top commenter. Though neither broke the 20 comments. Way to underachieve, ladies.

An old Army friend, Fran, came out of the wordwork and offered to edit this damn thing, something that (as you know) was desperately needed, and another friend has started trying to market it because I tweet like old people______ and ______.

Those two ______ up above are intentional. I didn’t just start a joke and then not finish it and post it like that. I mean, I would, but I didn’t this time. I did it because I want you — the person looking for sauna-boner information — to finish that joke. Finish it and leave it in the comments. If funny enough I’ll laugh, a lot.

This leads me to the way ahead with this thing. See I’m like a ship’s captain navigating the wordy seas. Arrgh maties! Thar be a heavin’ set o’ bossoms off the port side o’ the poop deck! (Suck on that last sentence, Fran!)

I’d like to expand this thing. I’d like to get more people involved, more writers mainly. A lot of you are funny, funny, funny and if you want to try your hand at writing something let us know. Leave a comment or send an email if you’re interested.

Because, more and more, this blog is becoming more of an “us” than an “me.”

I’m also a lazy shit, I don’t want to have to do all the work.

Seriously, in what is likely the worst casting call of all time if I’m calling on you for your “lolz!”

If you can type a sentence that doesn’t make Fran want to commit suicide,( and she’s strong in that regard. I’ve really tested her on this) and if you can make a joke that’s funny and want to give it a go, reach out. I can promise you, really promise you, that if you just want to try writing without having your name associated with it, we’re your blog. If we like it we’ll push it and your name will never be released. Most of the ‘mystery’ bloggers here are easily enough figured out because they know me personally, but I’d never give out a name without permission.

Finally, and this might be years, rather than a year down the road, I realize that

Finally a boobie free blog … not this blog though, no way. HAFBs will always have boobies.

some people reading this who are otherwise very funny writers might not want their name associated with HAFB.com because of well, boobies, beer and the frequency in which I say fuck.

But I do have an idea, a totally new idea, that might be more appropriate. Something without boobs, without beer and without my politics… stay tuned.

Finally (really finally this time) thanks to Dagmar for putting up with me and reading this crap. Thanks to Fran for coming on board and editing (still hoping she writes something – she’s very talented), thanks to mystery social-media guy who honestly puts up with way too much of my shit, thanks to the mystery guest bloggers and thanks to you, whoever you are, reading this. I get a lot of joy out of doing it, but it would be very, very pointless without you.

So after years, literally years, of pleading with my wife that she get rid of the brick she referred to as a cell phone (purchased in 2005, I kid you not) I have, at last, achieved success.

While my appeals garnered responses like, “It makes calls, that’s all I need it for,” and “Phones are stupid, people shouldn’t have them,*” I was gobsmacked when she turned to me last week and said, with a straight face, “Would you get me a smart phone?”

Just because the phone is smart, doesn’t mean I am.

Why did the technophobe become the technophile, you ask? Her daughter, is the simple answer. Her daughter asked me last weekend why her mom didn’t have a smart phone and the bells went off in my head. This, I knew, was the perfect way to get my lovely wife away from her monochrome flip phone and into something more representative of this millennium.

“You should suggest it to her,” I skillfully replied (because if nothing, I have mad skillz at … stuff). If her daughter wanted it, mommy would do it.

I was right. Her daughter asked her to do it and she did it for that reason and that reason alone.

Dagmar is now the proud owner of an iPhone 5, which is a better phone than mine. I rushed right out and got it, lest her desire to own a piece of modern technology faded and she became once again enamored with that paper weight she clung too.( I promise you it had a rotary dial on it. She would dial a nine and have to wait five minutes for the rotary wheel to reset — and most of you didn’t get that joke did you?)

I think this is a good time to point out that I haven’t used the word fuck, shit or “that really bad word” once yet. Have you noticed? It wasn’t intentional at all. Isn’t that a hoot?

Boobies! There I feel a bit better, not much but a bit.

Which reminds me, here I am in a hotel room without any access to images of boobs, save strangers’ on the internet, and all my lovely bride is sending me are fucking (wow I finally swore in a real sentence … I’m getting my stride back) photos of the cat. Really honey, is it too much to ask for a little “bow chicka wow wow” at the end the evening?

So new iPhone in hand, out into the modern world she goes. I felt uncertain, at first, as if I had released a blind person from their curse. I can call blind people cursed here because blind people can’t read this. So suck on that blind people.

The first few days you watch a person with their first smart phone is like watching a toddler explore the playground. Sure they’ll eat some sand (send a text that reads “you are a butt thread,”) hurt themselves on the monkey bars, (send photos of their foot) and get pushed down by a 3-year-old but hey — that’s part of growing up!

I have noticed, in the past, when she wasn’t working, Facebook wasn’t quite the evil, retarded (it’s totally evil and retarded, honey) stop on the internet she always claimed it was. Meaning, with a bit of leisure time and ready computer access she was quite the little commenter. She even did updates.

Even. Did. Updates.

A few of you who are friends with my her on Facebook may have noticed a slight uptick in comments from my lovely frau. You can thank the iPhone(though she still has that retarded kitten as her profile picture).

Boobalicious. I’m going to start saying boobalicious more often

I will also, for the foreseeable future, not be making comments about your boobs, ladies. I’m totally kidding. I will still be totally be making comments about your boobs.

I’m pretty sure there was something about Thanksgiving I was supposed to write about here. Whatever it was it sure as shit seemed like it was funny at the time. In fact the boss, not even my immediate supervisor but the B (with a capital B even) oss even said, you should put this in your blog.

To which I countered, “give me a laptop and I will right now,” because beer makes me enthusiastic about bad ideas.

I’m glad it didn’t happen. Look after 40 beers things like, “Of course the USSR’s geo-political influence in the oil embargo of the 1970s cannot be ignored but that line of thinking only serves to minimize, I like boobies” comes out of my mouth and no one deserves that.

Also what the fuck is the Boss doing reading this crap? Anyone else asking themselves that question? Shouldn’t she be reading some sort of public affairs foreign policy think tank wonky shit?

I fear that during the next staff meeting she’ll utter something like, “And I want to really leverage our social media efforts on this, get with Jason and talk to him about his initiatives in that area, tell him you have my full support. Also boobies.”

Anyway whatever the joke was … it was, trust me, funny. I mean not as funny as getting whipped in my boxers wearing a cowboy leather jacket in front of a friend – that’s kind of a high-bar, you know?

But still it WAS funny.

If I told you right now, you’d totally be laughing. So even though you’re not laughing right now rest easy in the knowledge that had I remembered you’d totally be laughing your tits/balls off at this very moment.

And really, isn’t it the thought that counts?

I mean I, having forgot what was so funny that night, still thought enough of you

and now for something…turkey (Photo credit: atomicity)

to do this update. Without the fucking joke mind you, I wrote this all in an effort to make sure you knew that if I had remembered I’d have shared it here, for your enjoyment, because I love you fuckers just that much.

Tis the season and all.

I also want to point out that I have just wasted almost an entire Microsoft word document page writing a big joke about the joke I forgot. I mean that’s also got to count for something. Three hundred and forty- four words to explain “I forgot the joke” … I even amaze me.

Anyway it was a good fuck thanksgiving. I know I personally led the competition on broken beer bottles (Todd 3, everyone else 0), making an ass of yourself and inappropriate remarks for $200. So that’s good stuff.

I was reading, on some internet message board today, stories about extended families annoying each other during Thanksgiving and being overseas I sometimes wish I could annoy the hell out of some family but, it’s not to be. More so than other holidays, namely because it is such an American holiday, American’s living overseas I think tend to congregate into clusters for Thanksgiving.

And cluster we did.

Before we had Thanksgiving dinner a baby puked on me, which is only noteworthy to people that don’t have babies, like me. Take that, other non-baby having people! In. Your. Face!

The family that hosted us does that ‘everyone holds hands for grace’ thing. My family was more the join your hands together to pray kind of deal.

“No one touch anyone else damn it, we’re about to pray” was a very common phrase during our families’ Thanksgiving celebration.

Both, in my retarded opinion, are pointless but why should we make a giant circle? Does God like that more? If so why? God’s weird I tell you, weird. It’s as if Gods thinking, “Well I’d totally bless your family and keep those guys in harm’s way safe but you’re all not holding hands in a giant circle so, fuck that.”

Maybe it’s a thing where if you have more than one person doing it, it’s got more power? That’s the issue with prayer, there’s no way to measure how effective it was. We had like 20 people holding hands in a circle prayer. What if the cut off is 21 people? As in 20 people has just enough ‘pray-power’ to ALMOST get to God but not quite. With 21 you’re a solid in.

It’s thoughts like these that got me removed from most Sunday Schools when I was little …

We had a no crap, honest to god, German at our thanksgiving. She’s dating one of the younger guys I work with (I think they’re TOTALLY having sex – don’t tell anyone) and came to Thanksgiving. Turns out she lived in New York for years so this story is kind of pointless.

What the fuck WordPress? This photo is tagged as joke, why? You know here I am trying to do this fucking retarded update, looking for a photo and you fuckers show me a semi-hot chick. So I get distracted because, she’s semi hot and barefoot. Why the fuck is this labeled joke? You people suck. Also happy Thanksgiving assholes in the photo-tagging department, I hate all of you.(Photo credit: PitsLamp photography)

Anyway happy belated Thanksgiving all, this would have been a rockin’ Thanksgiving update if I had just remembered the joke.